


For Caesar's I Am

by sithmarauder



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: (insofar as Austria cuddles), Austria is not as weak as everyone thinks he is, Canon Relationships, Cuddling, Historical Accuracy, Historical References, Historical Undertones, Imperialism, Introspection, M/M, Mild/Implied Sexual Content, Modern Era, Romance, Spain is not as big a doofus as everyone thinks he is, Translation Available, ex-husbands who once ruled the world
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-01
Updated: 2014-12-01
Packaged: 2018-02-27 15:54:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2698691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sithmarauder/pseuds/sithmarauder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once, Spain had been the powerhouse of Europe. They both had.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Caesar's I Am

**Author's Note:**

> Translation into Deutsch available: [Denn ich bin des Caesars](http://www.fanfiktion.de/s/55e5b7eb000418401cfaec38/2/Haus-Habsburg-Casa-de-Austria) by [Kate_Marley](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Kate_Marley).
> 
> Now with a companion piece: [The Prince's Grace](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4933210).
> 
> I'm actually a huge Spain/Austria shipper, I've just never done anything about it until now. I wrote this when I was supposed to be studying, and in my defence, it does deal with Spanish history, which is sort of what I was studying. Sort of. Anyway, this is a Spain/Austria modern-era fic, with themes relating to Spanish Imperialism and, of course, the Habsburgs, especially during the 16th-18th centuries. Also I really love Spain's longer hair so that's what he has here sssh.
> 
> Something to get out of the way right quick: This fic does teem with imperial undertones, because Spain was an imperial power. This does not mean I support all that Spain (and the Habsburgs) did; however, it is important to note that the anti-Spanish attitude so prevalent in today's historians stems from anti-Spanish (and anti-Catholic) propaganda spread by the British, especially from the 16th century onward. Spain was a flourishing power during the 16th century, a colonising nation (like Britain and, to a somewhat lesser extent, France), and one of Europe's glittering jewels, and I have read very convincing and thorough arguments detailing how they shaped the course of English history. As this fic is from Austria's point of view, these undertones will come through.
> 
> The rest of the notes can be found at the end of the fic.

> _"And graven with diamonds in letters plain_  
>  _There is written, her fair neck round about:_  
>  _Noli me tangere, for Caesar's I am,_  
>  _And wild for to hold, though I seem tame."_  
>  _\- Whoso List to Hunt,_ Thomas Wyatt

 

            It was occasionally baffling, how much attention England got from the world. The way many people talked, it was as if the world began and ended with the ornery island nation—the nation who had held them all in his imperial grip for so long. More baffling, Austria thought as he sat in his seat, watching said nation argue with a smirking France, was the fact that the era so commonly associated with England—centuries in the past, when the Tudors had seized the English throne—was not one of English domination at all. Austria remembered that time, those long ago centuries when borders had been what a victorious army declared them to be, when even family ties and dynastic marriages had not been enough to hold together an alliance.

            Remembered the feel of a heavy gold ring on his finger, and of gleaming plate armour resting on his shoulders, as he stood side-by-side with the man who was, at the time, his husband.

            That was far in the past, however, and he had been young. Nowadays the weight of Habsburg gold no longer adorned his person in the way it was supposed to, though he kept it close, as he kept the ring that had once bound him to Hungary. But the Habsburg ring was different. Even discounting the marriage, which Austria never did, it was through the Habsburgs that he had become what he was, and even if the marriage with Spain had ended in the early eighteenth century he had strung the ring on a chord and hung it around his neck, where he could feel the press of metal against his skin, warmed to the temperature of his body. It was there now, so familiar he did not even notice, tucked under fine white cloth. He flicked a disapproving look at England and France, who were still arguing, and to his left Germany was gritting his teeth, looking like he wanted to intervene. Austria glanced at him, giving an almost imperceptible shake of his head, and Germany subsided with a grunt.

            What France and England chose to do after the meetings was their own business, and if what they wanted to do was squabble and argue like children then Austria was all for letting them make fools of themselves. He could feel a shadowy frown flickering across his own face, and a light sigh escaped from between his lips even as Germany began gathering up his coat.

            “You look tense,” came a voice from his right, prompting Austria to lift his head and turn, not belaying the surprise that had lanced through him at being addressed. Spain was grinning at him, leaning on the back of his chair, a habit no one had ever been able to cure him of. Austria raised an eyebrow, and the other nation raised one back, as if challenging him to comment on it. Despite himself, Austria felt a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, and though he huffed there was nothing biting or derogatory in it. Spain’s eyes gleamed in triumph.

            It was hard to dredge up animosity to fill the gap that had once manifested as affection for Spain. That affection was still there, of course--bled into his bones, feeding off the memories that came from a time when they had both been barely older than children, joined by the hand to present a united front against Europe, marching under a blazing banner. He had grown up surrounded by that same banner, shrouded in yellow and black, him and Spain both, even as Spain had held the Cross of Burgundy close to him. With the Holy Roman Empire under their roof, later to be joined by Hungary and the two Italy brothers, he and Spain had risen to the pinnacle of their power, and they had done it side-by-side. For two glorious centuries prosperity had been theirs to claim, from fighting against the Turks to setting up trading routes with them, and the Americas still echoed with Spain’s influence. Spain had already been powerful when Austria had wed him, had already been a force for Europe to contend with, but the tempting crown of the Holy Roman Empire had been Austria’s ever since Frederick had bore Sigismund’s crown. He had not walked into that marriage empty-handed, and in his youth he had allowed affection to bloom, affection that had been reciprocated.

            And even though the marriage had ended, as all marriages did, ended when the bewitched king had failed to continue on the line, plunging Spain into his own war of succession, that affection was still there.

            It was hard to hate someone who was, in many ways, as much a part of him as the beautiful churches of Vienna.

            Germany cleared his throat pointedly, causing Spain to blink and step back, his hands raised in a teasing gesture of surrender. Germany looked at him, and Austria rose from his seat. “A minute, please,” he murmured to the blue-eyed nation, who sighed and gave him a weary look.

            “Not too long. I don’t want to have to go find you again,” was the cautioning response, which made Austria sniff delicately. Spain, from where he stood off to the side, looked amused.

            “You won’t have to,” Austria assured simply, and Germany shot him a look that was at once both resigned and disbelieving as he shrugged into his coat and left the room. Austria turned back to Spain once he had, barely conscious of the fact that England and France had left the room, muttering dangerously to each other and flanked by America, who was laughing and cajoling them.

            “Spain,” Austria greeted more formally, which made the other nation snort.

            “Ah, always so formal,” Spain said wistfully, reaching out to tap the side of one of Austria’s hands. Austria raised an eyebrow, and Spain again raised his back before he reached out and lightly pulled Austria’s hand towards him, kissing the top, as was his wont. “Formal enough for you?”

            Austria lightly smacked his hand away, but the lack of irritation in the gesture was something he knew Spain would read into. It was rare they got to speak like this, though he knew it shouldn’t have been. Spain, Prussia, and France often went out drinking together, and though Austria was permanently vexed by two of those three men fifty percent of the time there was almost never any irritation spared for Spain, not really. It was odd to think that there should be, at least according to the others. Austria didn’t look at it that way, not anymore. The divorce from Spain had been followed by meeting him on the battlefield, but such was the nature of the time. He had learned from his own history: don’t become attached.

            Yet it had been easy to feel affection for Hungary as well, perhaps because she, like Spain, had stood by his side for so many centuries. It had been natural, even. Now politics no longer worked as they once had, and he wondered why he and Spain rarely got to talk.

            Spain’s mouth quirked up at the corners and he sighed, rolling his shoulders in a deceptively lazy shrug as Austria watched. His own posture seemed rigid next to Spain’s, and he wouldn’t have looked out of place with a gold-handled cane in his black-gloved hands, but he didn’t have time to ruminate on that, for Spain stepped forward and suddenly he found himself with his arms full of Spaniard.

            “Sometimes I miss you, _mi tesoro_ ,” Spain murmured against the skin of his neck, and Austria could feel the deep breath the other man took, as if he were trying to imprint something to his mind. He allowed his own eyelids to lower, lips pursing before the hard line of his mouth softened, and one hand slid into Spain’s hair before he could convince himself otherwise. How many times had they stood like this before, Spain’s head turned down and buried against his shoulder, against his neck, Austria holding him (carefully) close, saying nothing? How many times had one or both of them returned from battle, bloody but unbowed, drawing comfort from one another as they beat back the forces of the Ottoman Empire?

            They had long passed beyond the need for words, and though Austria didn’t know what had prompted Spain to seek him out again, he allowed himself to relax and close his eyes and _remember and relive_ , letting the dark wooden panelling of the meeting room melt into exquisite Moorish architecture and stone palaces of old. He had become familiar with Spain’s fits of melancholy during their marriage, as well as the fits that most of the others seemed to forget: the times when Spain would go from cheerful to menacing, the sunny smile turning into something as dark and fearsome as the picture of the dreaded “Turk” Europe painted in its mind.

            “We don’t talk enough anymore,” Spain said after an unknown amount of time, and Austria sighed.

            “If you didn’t spend so much time with the fools you call friends perhaps it would be easier.”

            He felt rather than saw Spain’s grin.

            “Ah, _mi tesoro_ , you do not mind them that much, sí? You live with Prussia and Germany, after all, and you know as well as I that France has his moments.”

            Austria frowned at the reminder, his fingers tightening their grip in Spain’s hair, though he forced them to relax before it could hurt. Spain, for his part, merely laughed, the sound low and muffled against Austria’s neck.

            “They are fools—”

            Spain leaned back and pressed a finger a finger against Austria’s mouth, smiling. Austria subsided with another small sigh, and Spain’s smile widened.

            “Was there something you wanted in particular, Spain?” Austria asked after a moment, and Spain gave him a considering look before shaking his head, though the smile was fading. He looked more intent now, and he felt a hand rest lightly on his hip, Spain watching his face for any sign of protest. When he found none his grip relaxed, feeling more solid, more real. Austria waited; he knew Spain would speak in due time.

            “No, but there was something _you_ wanted,” Spain said, and Austria couldn’t help but stiffen. Spain held on, undeterred, and continued insistently, “I know when you think too hard about something.”

            Austria’s mouth thinned. “You do not.” A lie. They both knew it. Spain only laughed, but just as quickly the sunny expression was gone, replaced by a more serious one that Austria knew was seldom seen.

            “Thoughts of events past. It seems history likes to erase even the victors,” Austria said after a few beats, and it was Spain’s turn to tighten his grip. Austria didn’t comment, instead choosing to lift one hand and rest it lightly against Spain’s chest. He knew Spain had gotten his meaning, and he wondered if the other nation was truly as all right with how things had turned out as he seemed. Much of Spain’s energy seemed to be focused on appearing cheerful, taking great delight in riling up the more volatile of the two Italy brothers, and while Austria knew that much of his behaviour was genuine he also knew that Spain had a breaking point, a point where the happiness bled into aggression, into need, into an intensity that had terrified Europe for many decades. Spain had been at the pinnacle of his power in the sixteenth century, a deadly force even with the defeats to the Spanish Armadas, yet that was all anyone remembered. They remembered the Tudors, they remembered the little island that, at the time, could have only achieved Spain’s greatness in the wet dreams of their most arguably famous king. Yet while Henry VIII had been fantasising about England’s imperial power, it had been Spain who possessed it.

            Austria remembered Spain’s aggravation when Henry had set Catalina de Aragón aside, his anger fuelled by the indignation of the Holy Roman Emperor Charles V, nephew to the good Catholic queen. Remembered how his own blood had boiled as England’s breakaway from the Pope had caused ripples to tear through Europe, and remembered how fervently he and Spain had fought against the Protestants, the Puritans, the Calvinists. The later defeat of the Armada had been a minor problem compared to the myriad of issues England had thrown in Spain’s face, yet he had still dominated Europe, the power of the Holy Roman Empire still great even in the face of adversity.

            When Spain kissed him, hungry and intense, Austria could not even summon the will to be surprised. He felt a hand tangle in his hair, and the hand at his hip drew him closer until they stood chest to chest. He kissed Spain back as he hadn’t done in years, lowering one hand to pull at the hair on the nape of Spain’s neck.

            “You’re growing it out again,” Austria murmured, but Spain just kept kissing him, moving from his mouth to his jaw, and from his jaw to his neck. He could feel the need in Spain’s actions, the desire to let go as the political manoeuvrings of the modern times came to a head, for now there was no rushing off into battle, no more cavalry charges and soldiers lined up to face each other on fields. Everything was a game of stealth, of technology, and the release Spain had once drawn from battle, from felling his enemies, was denied to him. The goofiness Austria so often saw these days was nowhere to be found, and in its place was the man he had known, the man he had married and grown up with, and he wondered what Spain saw in him in return.

            “You still wear it,” Spain said suddenly, and Austria let out a small sigh when he felt Spain’s fingers against his neck, pulling at the silken chord that held the ring. Austria said nothing as Spain exposed the band to the air, turning it over between two tanned fingers, and then Spain’s mouth was on his again, more demanding than before, but also coaxing.

            His hand hit the end of the table as Spain backed him up against it, and the only sound was harsh breathing as Spain loosened his cravat, biting down against the pale flesh of Austria’s neck in a way that made the aristocratic nation stiffen, his eyes narrowing briefly as he suppressed a sigh of both irritation and satisfaction. Spain merely chuckled, and Austria tilted his head back, allowing his eyes to slip shut again as the past blended with the present, and he could almost feel the heat of the fire, could almost hear the crackle of the wood. But the table was no opulent bed, and it dug into his back almost painfully, so Austria pressed a hand against Spain’s chest and gently pushed him back.

            Spain, to his credit, obeyed promptly, but not without a whimper of protest. Austria could feel the other nation’s green eyes resting heavily on him as he straightened his cravat, using it to hide the bruise that was blooming on his neck.

            “We are not doing this here,” Austria said, and it was nothing short of good breeding that allowed him to keep his voice relatively steady, the words crisp and authoritative. Spain chuckled, leaning forward to kiss the side of his mouth.

            “Call Germany,” Spain whispered in his ear, one hand dragging up Austria’s back, “and tell him I’ll see to it that you get home.”

            “And of course you will be distracting while I do so,” Austria murmured, pushing the numbers into his phone. Spain grinned, the dark edge giving the needed answer, and when Austria lifted the phone to hear Germany’s gruff, “Austria?” Spain was quick to reattach his mouth to Austria’s neck. “Austria?” Germany said again, and the alarm in his voice prompted Austria to clear his throat lightly.

            “Germany,” he said, keeping his voice low and steady, feeling Spain smile against his skin. “Spain has offered to see me home. Please don’t let Prussia mess up the kitchen.” Spain muffled his laughter against Austria’s neck, and a brief smile flickered across Austria’s face as a result.

            He could practically feel the frown on Germany’s face as the other man voiced his affirmation, but all Austria did was hang up with a quick and curt _servus_.

            “Car’s this way,” Spain said, grinning, and Austria let him pull him out of the building with little more than a sigh.

-x-

            Spain’s home was different in some ways, older, but the bones of it were the same. They passed under the first arch, and in front of them a long, thin pond stretched all the way to the Moorish architecture that marked the entrance, the pond lined with bushy potted trees and tiled mosaics in muted yellows and golds. Today, however, he paid little heed to it. He knew the layout of this place, as Spain had known his, and it was easy to pass the familiar stylings, under more arcs and to the side where the roof stretched over their heads, also gold, so that it was like being bathed in God’s favour.

            Once Spain had gone to war for that favour, had fought viciously against the Protestants and their iconoclastic tendencies whilst Austria had faced the same problems rising in the Germanic States. It almost seemed like yesterday, and he voiced that without thinking. Spain answered with a grin and chuckle and a hand that skirted across the backs of Austria’s shoulders as they walked. There was a large door up ahead, beautiful carved wood, and they were in and under, that door closing behind them, before Austria could voice anything else.

            “Let me know you again, _mi rey_ ,” Spain said, and Austria reached one hand out to him, allowing Spain to grasp it and pull him close.

            Spain kissed him again, and for a moment the air Austria breathed belonged to an age five-hundred years ago, then four-hundred, then three, when they were younger and older and the world had been laid out before them on a platter made of the most exquisite gold. Kings, they had been; emperors, they had called themselves. Veritable Caesars in the lands Rome had left behind after his departure, until they built themselves their own glittering palaces, filling the empty thrones and constructing new empires, new realms to rule over until the world _screamed_ and _echoed_ with the word _augustus_.

            Spain groaned against his mouth and Austria closed his eyes to the soft reds and yellows of the Moorish artwork, blocking out the had-beens even as they crashed over him, as he knew they must have been doing to Spain. There were hands on his chest, hands against his waist, and he felt soft hair and hard planes of muscle under his own fingertips, a body made up of scars and resilience.

            “What did Britain ever have on you?” Austria said, and while they both knew the answer to that, both knew what had ended up happening, that didn’t diminish the fact that Spain had _made_ England, inadvertently shaped him into the superpower he had become. He felt Spain’s hand tighten against his hip and then he was falling back, hitting a soft mattress and even softer sheets, and his head tilted back as Spain’s mouth moved against the area just under his ear. Material moved away under skilled hands, and Austria let out a hushed sigh as Spain bit down again, his hands gripping the sheets before he rolled them over, sitting atop the other man’s hips and staring down at Spain’s darkening green eyes and the familiar smile that had spread across his face. Austria’s hands braced against Spain’s chest, and he barely heard Spain’s words when the other nation spoke, too focused on sensation in a way he rarely was, focused on the almost bruising grip Spain had on his waist, on the way Spain whispered old Spanish into his ear.

            For a moment he could almost see twin sets of armour glistening in the background, could almost hear the roar of the soldiers as they fought to defend Vienna, could feel the pulsing ache that had been Spain’s war, the war Austria had failed to win for him.

            Then Spain surged up, their mouths meeting hungrily, and Austria pushed everything else away, allowing himself to drown.

-x-

            “Do you think Germany will come after me with pistols drawn?” Spain yawned later when the first light of dawn streamed into the room, the space already lit with the soft glow of a bedside lamp. Austria had no book of his own to read, but there were plenty of old texts, something he knew many of the others would be surprised about. He did not know why. Spain could play the fool when it suited him (and sometimes he genuinely was a fool), but he coveted the old works as religiously and as jealously as England.

            “I suspect Germany has better things to do than hunt down an old enemy,” Austria murmured, and he felt Spain laugh from where the other nation had wrapped himself around Austria’s waist, head in his lap. Austria absently stroked his hair.

            “Ah, _mi rey_ , I would not be so sure. Germany, see, he cares a great deal for you. Maybe he’s worried I’ll do something horrid to you.”

            “You had two centuries to do something horrid to me, if that had been what you wanted.”

            Spain lifted his head, pushing himself up on his hands, and though there was a grin on his face his eyes glowed seriously in the lamplight. When he leaned forward to press a soft kiss to Austria’s lips, the former empire let him without fuss.

            “It is easy to remember those times,” Spain said, curling his fingers around the ring that lay exposed around Austria’s neck. When Austria’s hand moved down, he could feel a matching band of gold around Spain’s right thumb. He said nothing, and eventually Spain sighed and settled against him, closing his eyes as Austria resumed the absent hair-stroking he had been doing earlier, content to lull the other man back into a state of ease the way he had done so many times before, as if there had never been those two centuries of fighting against each other.

            The past was long gone, and he knew that. Knew that more than anyone. There were no more glory days, no more flying banners and grand empires that stretched across the known waters, and for Austria those days had been gone since Prussia had ripped a young Germany from his grasp, setting into play a series of events that would eventually bring them both to ruin. Spain, too, was no longer the seat of European power, a knight in imperial gold wielding a halberd that left red streaming behind him.

            But those memories had once been reality, and only fools forgot the past, forgot that before England there had been Spain, and before Spain there had been others. Once upon a time there had even been another little boy, before Germany, a little boy dressed all in black with eyes as large and blue as the Mediterranean Sea— a little boy that he and Spain had been in charge of; a little boy that Austria had eventually lost to Napoleon’s ambition.

            He felt Spain rubbing circles into his hip and looked down, sharp features softening at the faint smile on the other man’s face. Such a contradiction of a man, a change from what he had once been and yet, at his core, still the same. There was the Spain that everyone saw, the man with the ready smile and the laid-back approach, teasing and laughing and as bright as the sun. Then there was the other Spain, the darkness and the battle lust and the intensity that so few saw anymore, to the point where they had forgotten it altogether. All these facets made up the man currently taking up his lap, the man sprawled across the rumpled bedsheets as if he were still king, as if his name still resonated with a cry of Caesar, of Augustus, and as Austria leaned down to press a light kiss to the top of Spain’s head he thought he would always love this man, in a way. That a thousand years could pass and still the makings of a king would remain, tied permanently to a world of old.

            And part of Austria, the part that had grown up with the blood and the war and the intricate ties of family politics, would always belong to that world.

            “ _Noli me tangere_ ,” Austria murmured, “for Caesar’s I am,” and when Spain pulled him down for a kiss, he could only smile.

**Author's Note:**

> \- The Cross of Burgundy was Spain's naval ensign flag and was used from about 1506 onward.  
> \- The image of "the Turk" was something largely constructed by Christians, particularly those in Protestant England. This image was chiefly a negative one, wherein the Ottoman Empire were portrayed in various different ways, but a prevailing image was that of a terrifying conqueror. The Ottomans were a major power at the time, and their advancement was only halted by efforts in Vienna during the 16th century, and attitudes towards them were generally negative. I've tried to avoid the more negative impressions here.  
> \- Austria's marriage to Spain lasted two centuries, from 1519-1700 after the death of Carlos II, who was hampered by genetic issues stemming from generations of inbreeding. Geneticists say that, by the time Carlos II was born, his parents might as well have been brother and sister.  
> \- Emperor Sigismund was Holy Roman Emperor until he died in 1437, and was originally from Nuremberg, Bavaria. He chose his son-in-law, Albert V of Austria, to succeed him as King of Germany. The crown of the Holy Roman Empire would pass to Frederick III, the first official emperor from the House of Habsburg.  
> \- "The Bewitched King" refers again to Carlos II, known in English as Charles II. In a continuation of the information presented above, Carlos was the last Spanish Habsburg, and was plagued with a variety of genetic diseases during his life (which earned him that nickname) that rendered him absolutely useless and prevented him from continuing his line. Upon his death Spain was plunged into the War of Spanish Succession, with Austria and the French Bourbons trying to put one of their own on the empty throne.  
> \- Spain's little dig at Austria's disregard for France is a nod to the marriage of the ill-fated Maria Antonia of Austria (commonly known as Marie Antoinette) to the equally ill-fated Louis XVI of France. For those who don't know, both monarchs lost their lives to the guillotine right before "The Terror", a period of about a year during the French Revolution when Robespierre went a little nuts and ruthlessly executed anyone he considered a threat to the new regime.  
> \- Spain actually sent several armadas to defeat Elizabeth I, but through a series of storms, bad weather, and burning cork factories they were forced to retreat each time. So really it was less a victory for the English and more Poseidon mistaking Spain for Odysseus. Even so, Protestant England would use these events to claim that God favoured them, that God wanted to get rid of the ~evil Catholics~ and the ~evil Spaniards~, and it would become a useful piece of propaganda for them.  
> \- I'm sithmarauder and I love Moorish architecture. Anyway, the reason Spain's house is of an old Moorish design is because the Moors were a major presence in Spain (/the Iberian Peninsula) from about the 8th century to the 15th, when Isabella and Ferdinand of Spain brought about the end of the Reconquista in 1492, driving them from their last stronghold in Granada.  
> \- I am actually just Thomas Wyatt trash as well, while I'm at it. Austria's last words to Spain are from Wyatt's poem _Whoso List to Hunt_ , and the Latin translates to "touch me not" or "do not touch me". Supposedly this is also what Jesus said to Mary Magdalene after rising from the dead.


End file.
